


In Not So Many Words

by scorpiris



Category: Alexander (2004)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-16
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-20 08:27:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/885128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiris/pseuds/scorpiris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. With or Without You

**Surprise**

_Words wound as surely if not more than the truest of arrows._

Despite his heart hammering-stammering in his chest squeezing air from his lungs, even as blood rushed mightily making deceivers out of his ears, Hephaestion thanked the gods for his eyes. Alexander told him once of them, seemingly all-seeing and true. He laughed it off then, but how he thanked the deities for them now.

Though now—as clear as those days when he saw a spear, an arrow, a scimitar arched through fragile air in battlefields—comprehension dawns upon Alexander, even as those treacherous words slide off that beloved tongue.

Hephaestion sees, as clear as a cloudless summer sky of their childhood days, how Alexander's eyes widen, as his ears catch up with his lips. Surprised, astonishment crashing upon that kingly shoulders like a mighty wave. Then shattering. His beloved is not half as defeated as he, but it is an echo all the same.

And thus Hephaestion knows, holds this knowledge close to his breasts, his private conviction. Later, Alexander might seek him out. Later Hephaestion might understand. But for now it is enough to know that he is not the only one bleeding inside.

 

***

**Jealousy**

Finally they are sent back to their tents. Not unlike unruly children being drawn from the playing fields loudly, to be sent back without dinner, he thinks. He leaves, as Hephaestion does the other way. He is content to keep his quiet, letting his followers do the grumbling for him.

He arrives in his tent. Soon, the king arrives, too. Another round of anger that can only come from Alexander. No. From the king. _Philobasileus_ , he is reminded again and again. His king throws words that should make him lash back. Yet, he cannot find himself to care too much.

He listens with half an ear. He watches only lazily. To be honest, he remembers little of the king's tirade. Only that he has agreed to something. Someone will remind him of it, no doubt. He is too preoccupied with his inner celebration, that Alexander's favourite must fall from grace.

He satisfies himself, rather greedily, with image of Hephaestion's defeated look just moments before. Cut down, it seems, by five little words. This image will accompany him to a cheerful bath and then to tumble into a warm satisfied sleep, he knows, as soon as the king leaves his tent.

Now though, standing alone in the middle of his tent, his own people nowhere near, cowardly swept away by the king's wrath, he is assailed by doubts. The king, he knows, will be halfway to his next destination, if not already there, such has been his haste leaving Craterus's tent.

The king will not tolerate disruptions in camp, he knows. The king will not hesitate to execute them himself. Yet, it is clear to him at least that Alexander, both man and king, will mourn only one. Craterus finds his elation short-lived, his envious heart burning even stronger still.

 

***

**Minute**

By the time Arrhidaeus arrives, swords have already been unsheathed, battle lines drawn, sides firmly chosen. He is too late to witness the cause of it, but he knows that he will learn of it anyway. Soldiers gossip worse than old hags sometimes, more vicious than a slighted woman too.

He stands behind a substantial crowd. Soldiers, pages, craftsmen, stablehands, and who knows who else. They all crane their necks, jostling for a better view. It seems as though the whole camp has surged; an encircling sea of curious souls, their voices crash into each other like waves and thunder.

Less than a minute later, Alexander arrives. Fury propels the king onward, brows darkened by anger, and the crowd parts to let him through. Some scurries away in fear of who knows what, allowing Arrhidaeus to move to the middle of the throng. The crowd thins, but the air thickens.

Alexander yells. Two generals defend themselves in vain. Another minute trickles away. More people leave. Alexander speaks ever louder, uncontrollable in his mindless rage. Soon, both generals leave, their followers trailing behind them like lost children. For a while, Alexander stands alone. None dares approach the eye of the storm.

But, like a flame that entices foolish children to reach out and touch, Alexander is not alone for too long. What is left of the crowd moves. The highest ranks among them aim to be first. Some outwardly grovels, others do with more artifice. All of them see only opportunity.

In a blink, Alexander brushes them all aside, striding towards one of the tents, his ire a bright burning beacon. The sycophants disperse like lost ants. Some of them notice Arrhidaeus standing there, now somewhat ahead of the watching crowd. Most ignore him, but a few decide to approach him.

He can see hope in their eyes. They must be stupid. Or new. Or both. A person or two sidle up to him. He feels them speak, yet he hears not what they say. What is it that they hope for him to give? Don't they know anything at all?

He cares not what they say. He has no care at all. He gives them only a smile, leaves them to their uninspired business. He wonders where he should go now? Maybe the kitchen tent. Simple questions with simple answers for the simpleton brother of the king, he thinks, content.


	2. The Beginning, An End

**A** **Party**

It takes him only a short while to clear sleep from his eyes, enough for his page to appear by his bedside with a cool cloth. He notes how morning shines through wide open windows and a simple breeze making light summer curtains sway. Today, his mind seems clearer, too.

It is a good day, he decides, as he quietly lets the young, equally quiet page to attend to his morning routine. Then just as quietly the page leaves, through a door that leads to the rest of the palace. Arrhidaeus hesitates a heartbeat, then follows the same path out.

Nary half a step out of the threshold, someone suddenly runs into him, pushing him off one foot. He wobbles, like some round-bottomed toy, before straightening up with a hand on a wall. Blood rushes through his veins, and it takes a while to get his breath steady again.

He turns around and sees a page picking himself off the floor, surrounded by fruits fallen and bruised. An empty metal bowl rolling down the hallway. The page looks up, looking trite for a second but soon scowls. Arrhidaeus just smiles, he doesn't need a page to like him anyway.

He walks past the page only to almost run into yet another. This time there is no collision and he is grateful for it. Now he sees a dizzying flurry of people, more so than usual. Pages, squires, handmaidens, courtiers, and everyone it seems. Scurrying around, looking all too fussy.

He turns a corner and sees a door open. Women exit, the Snake Queen being one of them. He walks past her, who watches him sharply, looking down her upturned nose and lifted chin. They exchange no words, there seems to be no need. She goes one way, he another.

A shadow appears in front of him, then a voice. "Joy to you, my prince." Arrhidaeus quickly turns himself around to look behind, fully expecting to find his brother hovering near, finding nobody. He turns himself forward again when the shadow chuckles in amusement. No brother, just the brother's companion.

"Truly, it is you I bid good morrow," Hephaestion says, eyes twinkling brighter than those shining through windows and arches. "Alexander is already unhappily attending to his many duties," a shrug comes with the explanation, as if it makes everything clearer. They exchange small pleasantries, and soon their paths diverge.

He sees more busy souls. Some carrying many things, other just a few but heavy objects. Meats, fruits, and flowers that make him sneeze in the hallway. Some too busy to notice him, some ignores him, some skids to a halt and babbles a nearly-appropriate greeting before moving along.

He remembers. Today, his father will be god. No longer royal, now divine. A public adulation, then a feast to eclipse all others. The palace is no stranger to feasts, but this will test it to the limit. He sidesteps a page who leans against a statue in fatigue.

 

***

 

**An Age Apart**

Alexander has prepared himself to hate the newborn baby. Just like he came to hate the baby's mother once the wedding was announced—a hate that burned even brighter when the bride's uncle mocked him and his father threw fuel to his fire. His mother approves of such a feeling.

It is several months old now. Caranus, not it, he has to remind himself that the baby has a name. Though names only make the situation even more palpable, unavoidable. He hates it for what it represents. He has yet to see it, though. He wonders if he should now.

His feet sometimes have a will of their own. He is already many turns away from his chambers when he finally realizes it. He can feel eyes upon him, his ears hear the whispers they try so hard to conceal. There is no mystery as to where he is heading.

For an insane moment, he hopes that one of those people will rush to fetch Philip; that he will see his father waiting for him by the door ready to protect one son from the other. For a moment, he wishes that choices can be taken away from his hands.

He is almost disappointed when he encounters only some guards standing ready by the door. Yet, almost weak-kneed in relief as well. The guards merely stare at him, slightly fidgeting, not knowing what to do. They are lowly guards, but they are aware of the politics of the palace.

Soon, he hears footsteps coming towards him. He will wonder later, though not right then, why he feels no dread. He does not look to see, it could well be the angry father. But he never looks away from the one point on the door he has been staring at.

The footsteps come to a halt right next to him. The warmth of another person's body reaches out. It is familiar. The voice that greets him is also familiar. He does not know if he returns the greeting. The guards seem to relax just a fraction, worrying a little less.

Alexander feels tension fade away from him a little too, though he is still wound too tight. Hephaestion stands next to him not uttering any sound, though Alexander can feel questions rolling off his friend in waves. Should he enter, or should he leave. Indecision is a sign of weakness.

He doesn't know whether to be relieved or upset when the door opens from inside, taking the choice away from him. His other brother (he has to remind himself that he has two brothers now) exits the room, greeting Alexander, Hephaestion in turn, then telling them the baby needs rest.

The three of them turn away. Even with his back turned he can feel the guards palpably unclenching. He sighs heavily, is he really that much of an ogre? This thought frightens him and he quickly shakes it aside; concentrates on the words coming out of his brother's mouth, instead.

"Father was of the age you are now, when I was born. As you are now that Caranus is born." Arrhidaeus says. "I have always wondered what it is like to have another younger brother, because I liked you the day you were born. It was really an immediate thing."

"But for Caranus I feel nothing. Maybe he is just too small. It is easily a generation that separates him and us. Nothing at all. Though he looks just like you when you were born." He pauses to peer at Alexander. "I don't think I shall ever see him again."


	3. The Bargain

Another bright summer's day beckons, and she takes barely a second to mourn that her son is now a year older. It is another year removed from the innocence that kept him to her. Yet, it is also another year closer to destiny. There will be a feast today, where he will receive gifts and tributes. She has seen some of them, brought in by courtiers and dignitaries, too large and gaudy to keep away from view. Her son will smile and be polite, speak appropriate words as a politician should. Most of the gifts will not be seen again.

There are only a handful of things her son cherishes, few and far in between are his beloved things. He hasn't always been a restrained boy. Like most other child, her son grows up wanting and coveting many things. She still remembers many-a-things he took from other children just because. But education and upbringing change this quickly. His Spartan tutor beats it out of him. And she, as his mother, takes it upon herself to remind him of caution. Beware of people bearing gifts, she never tires of saying, beware of the malice and fickleness behind each bauble.

Her husband does not approve, of course. Philip approves little of what she does, that is a given. Some out of differences in opinion, but some are just said out of spite. Indeed, is it a sin to love a son, to want to keep him out of harm's way?

She let her handmaidens attend to her, and turns her mind to the things her son loves most. There's the hawk, she can see it now, flying against blue Macedonian skies. There's the hunting hound and also the horse. But most of all: the boy. Hephaestion, if she remembers correctly.

The hawk is a worthy thing to have, but she fears it will perish sooner or later. It has proven itself before of course, ably avoiding an arrow or twelve. But what will it do when the sun is dimmed and the sky is darkened by a hail of arrows and a rain of fire? The hound too, it is old, it has not a long life to begin with. The war horse too, either age or battle will catch up with it. They will all perish, and her son will grieve. Nothing she can do to change such circumstances.

The boy, Hephaestion, is a different story altogether; as sharp as the hawk, as loyal as the hound, and as healthy as a horse. He has none of the hawk's fragility, none of the fear the horse seems to have, and Zeus willing, the boy will have time longer than the dog's years. All as it may be, however, the Fates might take the boy away from Alexander even sooner than they will the other animals. Not death, oh nothing so morbid like that; and she refuses to think about death on the day of her son's supposedly happy feast.

She has heard it, from her gossipy handmaidens and also from generals whose tongues have been loosened by Dionysus (and they all wonder why she is eternally grateful to this God? He has, in his own way, kept her and her son alive all these years, amidst all court machinations). She has heard that the boy will soon return to Athens. His mother is no longer healthy, his father no longer spry. They need someone to take over the estate, and the boy will learn statecraft and spycraft, and apply them in the enemy's city. She has seen Philip's desperation.

The boy will leave at the end of Alexander's feast, she was told. That is why the old General has made his now-infrequent trip to Macedon. The boy will be withdrawn from Alexander's side. The boy will heed his father's wishes, such is his loyalty to blood. The boy will be much saddened, much tortured, to leave Alexander's side, such is his loyalty to his prince. This Olympias approves. And in turn, Alexander will be much devastated, that much is evident. And this, Olympias cannot abide. It anything, it will leave Alexander weak, his rank of loyal supporters dwindling.

As much as she tries to shield him, as much as she begrudges others being so close to her son, she is not so conceited to think that she alone can shield him from all harm. Especially now. She can feel tides changing, she knows to wait for the straw that will break. Philip has something in his mind, and whatever it is, it will not be good for her and maybe her son. The vultures are circling restlessly overhead. And in times like this, a loyalty such as that of Hephaestion's is something she cannot and must not discount.

It is still early in the day that the corridors are not as crowded, yet late enough for some to be milling about. She smiles as she finds her quarry amongst the crowd. His face is older than she remembers, so little she has seen him about. She waves her handmaiden away, and they hover far enough as they know to. Her prey notices her approaching, they exchange their morning greetings, him in warm deference, she with cold impatience. She is not here for pleasantries, and there is grave business to attend. "I have a proposition to make you, General."

 

***

 

Years have gone by, many things have happened (sadly not all according to her liking) and now she is old. Life and fortune have conspired to take her son far away from her, and yet she takes joy in his achievements. She rejoices also for how her bargain that one summer day has paid well in return. Amyntor's boy has grown into a man, and has proved to be the best investment she has ever made for her son's sake. She dearly wishes for it to last forever, but she fears that Fate may have a different spin to make.

* * *


	4. The Wives of Alexander the Great

Men do not have sole claim on codes of honour and chivalry; the women within the hierarchy of Alexander's household have them too. Such as no backstabbing, or poisoned goblets during feast days. No wishing bad omens on unborn children or gruesome deaths for rival wives. They are, after all, of noble births, and certain conducts are beneath their stations; certain thoughts, too.

This truce between Alexander's wives has not always been so. They are, after all, flesh and blood. Women with desires and dreams, with future offsprings whose fates rest on decisions made this day. The past and their own experiences have also shaped their ideas on who they are and of the Others.

They are bitter enemies, even between sisters and kins. Not just between wives, but also towards perceived threats from other women scattered in many royal harems. Loyalties and strategic alliances overlap. The men often think that they live on the edge and by the sword. They have nothing against what goes on in the hearts and minds of women. No one is safe. Wives, concubines, dancing girls, hetairas, each more exotic than the next; female, males, eunuchs and everything in between.

Fresh-faced boys sent in to replenish fallen soldiers are treated with the same suspicion as foreign princesses offered in exchange for peace. Sharp looks do not let up easily, mostly not until boys leave straight for distant postings; or until those princesses leave with their caravans to whence they came, laden with gifts from their new sovereign but bereft of any betrothals.

But the women of Alexander's household know that the low number of marriages has little to do with him respecting his wives—not to say he does not, for he _does_ respect his wives, always considerate, always loving—and more to do with someone who goes by the name Hephaestion.

It is also this person who, albeit indirectly, has caused this uneasy truce between them. Once they realised that they are only fighting for second place, the flame of jealousy diminished, cooled somewhat into slow-burning embers. Not completely extinguished, just quietly waiting for the right time to be fanned into a mighty flame once more. Unless the Chiliarch has found a way to bear Alexander's progeny himself. Then they might as well join a monastic order and be done with it.

All are taxing things, but they are mistresses of keeping up appearances. It feels like ages have passed, but truly it has only been months.

Today, they sit together, bedecked in jewelry and their most becoming smiles. It is yet another celebration that follows a long line of other feasts, if not for one god, then it is for another. Today, though, the air feels different. There is a weigh settling heavily upon them all.

The Chiliarch rises to leave. The king follows soon after, worry in his every move. It is early yet. The women look at one another, wondering how long the truce will last.


End file.
